Spy Sinker

Bret hadn't reckoned on her being so jumpy but he had to tell her: it was the reason he'd come. So after what seemed an appropriate time, he said, 'Everything points to the notion that they will take you over there some time over the next seventy-two hours.'

'Me?'

'If they are smart, they will. They think you're blown. You'd better be ready.'

'But if they arrest Bernard…'

'Forget Bernard! He went because he's the most experienced Berlin agent we have. He'll be all right. Start thinking of yourself.'

'But if he's arrested?'

Bret stayed calm. In a measured voice he said, 'If Bernard is held, you can do more for him over there than you can sitting here waiting for the phone.'

'You're right, of course,'

'Don't try playing it by ear yourself. Leave that to Bernard. Sit down right now and make sure you have everything committed to memory: out of contact devices, the "commentary" and your own goodbye codes in case things go wrong. We'll get you home, Fiona, don't worry about that.' A cat strolled in, and standing on the doormat, looked first at Bret and then at Fiona. With her foot Fiona pushed the plastic bowl of food nearer to the door, but after sniffing it very closely the cat walked out again.

'I've learned it all and destroyed my notes.'

'Once there, you won't be contacted for several weeks. They'll be watching you at first.'

'I know, Bret.'

She sounded listless and he tried to snap her out of that. 'They will try to trick you. You must be ready for them.'

'I'm not frightened.'

He looked at her with admiration. 'I know you're not, and I think you're an extraordinary woman.'

This compliment surprised her. It was delivered with warmth. 'Thank you, Bret.' Perhaps somewhere under that smooth silky exterior there was a heart beating.

'Is there anything we've forgotten, Fiona? I keep going over it again and again. Try to imagine that you really are the agent they think you are…' He snapped his fingers. 'Money! Wouldn't you want to leave some money – maybe money for the children – and instructions of some kind? A final letter?'

'My father arranged a trust fund for the children. Letter? No, that's too complicated. Bernard would find some way of reading between the lines.'

'My God!' said Bret in real alarm. 'You think he could?'

'I've lived with Bernard many years, Bret. We know each other. Quite honestly, I don't know how we've been able to keep everything secret from him for so long.'

'I know it's been rugged at tunes,' said Bret, 'but you came through.' He looked at his watch. 'I'll leave you now. I know you well enough to know you'll want a little time alone, to think. Take time out to rest and get ready. We'll monitor your journey right up to the time we can't stay with you.'

She looked at him, wondering what would happen at the point he wouldn't be able to stay with her, but didn't ask. 'Shall I let you know if Bernard phones?'

'No need. I have someone tapping into your phone.' He looked at his watch. 'As from an hour back. If you want me I'll be at home.'

He buttoned his raincoat. 'If my guess is right, this is where it all begins.'

She smiled ruefully.

'Good luck, Fiona. And see you soon.' He was going to kiss her but she didn't look as if she wanted to be embraced, so he winked and she responded with a smile.

'Goodbye, Bret.'

'Suppose it's all a KGB caper? Suppose the Russkies grab her and keep her husband too; suppose they then ask you to do a deal?' Sylvester Bernstein was wearing a raincoat with a wool lining: the sort of garment a man buys soon after he starts surveillance duties.

'We'll worry about that when it happens,' said Bret. He shivered. He wasn't expecting it to be so cold, even in Scotland at night.

'You'd sure be behind the eight ball, old buddy. Two agents down the tube.'

'We have others.'

'Is that official policy?'

'Once deposited an agent is dead,' said Bret. 'There are no second chances or retirement plans.'

'Does Mrs Samson know that?' said Bernstein.

'Of course she does; unless she is stupid. We can't count on getting her back in one piece. Even if we do, she won't be in good shape. Even getting her set up for this task has taken a lot out of her. She used to be sweet, gentle and trusting: now she's learned to be tough and cynical.'

'Nice going, Bret,' said Bernstein. So Bret was taking it badly. This kind of nonsense was Bret's way of dealing with his worries about Fiona Samson. Sylvy had seen other case officers in similar circumstances. They often formed an emotional attachment to the agent they were running.

Bret didn't reply. He huddled closer to the wall of the ruined building in which the two men had found shelter from the cold rainy wind off the sea. It was a wild night, a Gotterdammerung that you had to be on this lonely piece of coastline to appreciate. The sea was black, but a can-opener, inexpertly used, had torn open the horizon to reveal a raging tumult of reds and mauves lit with the livid flashes of an electrical storm. What a night to bid goodbye to your homeland. What a night to be out of doors.

'This is some desolate place,' said Bernstein, who had known many desolate places in his life.

'Once it was a submarine base,' said Bret. The last time I was here that anchorage was full of ships of the Home Fleet: some big battle wagons too.'

Bernstein grunted and pulled up the collar of his coat and leaned into it to light a cigarette.

Bret said, 'The Royal Navy called this place HMS Peafowl, the sailors called it HMS Piss-up. That jetty went all the way out in those days. And there were so many depot ships and subs that you could have walked on them right across the bay.'

'How long ago was that?' said Bernstein. He blew smoke and spat a shred of tobacco that had stuck to his lip.

'The end of the war. There were subs everywhere you looked. The flat piece of tarmac was the drill field that the Limeys called "the quarter deck". The British are quite obsessed with marching and drilling and saluting: they do it to celebrate, they do it for punishment, they do it to pray, they do it for chow. They do it in the rain, in the sunshine and in the snow; morning and afternoon, even on Sunday. This… where we are now, was the movie theatre. Those concrete blocks along the roads are the foundations for the Quonset huts, row upon row of them.'

'And stoves maybe?' said Bernstein. He clamped the cigarette between his lips while he used his night-glasses to study the water of the bay.

'I can hardly believe that it's all gone. When the war was on, there must have been eight thousand servicemen stationed here, counting the engineering facilities on the other side of the bay.'

'I never had you figured for a sailor, Bret.'

'I was only a sailor for twenty-five minutes,' said Bret. He was always selfconscious about being invalided out of the service. Angry at having to divert and land him, his submarine captain told him he was a Jonah. Bret, who had falsified his age to volunteer, never forgot that Jonah label and never entirely freed himself from it.

'Twenty-five minutes. Yes, like me with Buddhism. Maybe it was long enough.'

'I didn't lose faith,' said Bret.

'You were in the US Navy?' said Bernstein, wondering if Bret had been with the British so long ago.

'No, I was in U-boats,' said Bret sourly. 'I won the Iron Cross, first class.'

'Pig boats eh?' said Bernstein, feigning interest in an attempt to pacify the older man.

'Submarines. Not pig boats: submarines.'

'Well, now you've got yourself another submarine, and it belongs to the Russkies,' said Bernstein. He looked at his watch. It was an antiquated design with green luminescent hands; another item acquired when he began surveillance work.

To the unspoken question, Bret said, They're late but they'll turn up. This is the way they always do it.'

'Here? Always here?'

'It's not so easy to find a place where you can bring a sub in close to the shore; somewhere some landlubber can launch an inflatable boat without getting swamped. Somewhere away from shipping lanes and people.'